


The Gentle Hand of Destiny

by anodyneer



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Injury Recovery, Recovery, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1339492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anodyneer/pseuds/anodyneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Neal's abduction, Peter tracks him down yet again, but not without nearly tragic consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gentle Hand of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sholio's [prompt](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/210956.html?thread=1439244#t1439244) for [whitecollarhc](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/)'s Abduct-a-Palooza II. (Prompt contains a pretty blatant spoiler for this fic.)

Cold.

He was so cold. 

Neal rolled onto his side and tried to curl into as tight a ball as he could manage, the tattered piece of cardboard under him providing little insulation. He thought he might be warmer if he made himself as small as possible, but he didn’t seem to have any body heat left. At least the cardboard, however small and flimsy, kept him off the dirt floor.

He stared straight ahead into the darkness, trying to ignore the chattering of his teeth and how it bored into his brain. He didn’t know where he was – where they’d taken him – but he’d been there so long that time had stopped making sense. Weeks, at least. Maybe months.

They checked on him once or twice a day using night vision goggles to keep him in the darkness – and keep him from seeing them. Though they didn’t speak civilly to him, they taunted him sometimes, tortured him others. Jamming a pistol into his temple or under his chin was a favorite game, as was shocking him with what he thought was some sort of cattle prod.

In spite of that, they still gave him water and occasionally something that barely passed for food, made sure he was still alive. Their prisoner, their bargaining chip. As long as he was breathing, he didn’t give up hope. If they didn’t kill him, they still needed him. 

And if they still needed him, that meant Peter was still looking for him.

Peter.

_I’m gonna leave my cushy desk job and hunt you down._

“Peter.” He spoke the name out loud, just once, startled that he didn’t recognize his own voice. Low and raspy, hoarse from whatever illness he’d contracted shortly after he’d been imprisoned, along with weeks of disuse and breathing dank air.

He hadn’t been this passive when they’d first taken him. He’d spent days feeling his way over the walls and floor in the darkness, looking for a way to escape. There were no windows, no hinges on his side of the door, nothing to use as a weapon. He’d tried talking his way out of the situation, tried reasoning with those who were holding him, tried to use his relationship with the FBI as leverage.

When they got tired of listening to him, they’d beaten him until he finally, mercifully lost consciousness. He hadn’t spoken to them again. And then he’d gotten sick, feverish and hacking, chest aching, and it seemed to last forever. Though they hadn’t gotten medical treatment for him, they’d given him something for his fever and brought extra water. They’d kept him alive, and somehow, he was able to use that to hold on to what little hope he had left.

Other than the interminable cold, he’d gotten used to his surroundings weeks – or was it months – ago. The oft-damp dirt floor, the windowless pitch black, the ever-present reek of mildew in the air mixed with the stench from the bucket in the far corner.

Neal was dozing, his shivering having exhausted him to the point that the cold no longer mattered, when the familiar sound of keys rattling in the steel security door brought him around. He instinctively squeezed his eyes shut, knowing all too well that the dim light from the hallway would rob him of his night vision.

When he heard the door swing shut, he risked opening his eyes and pushed himself up on one arm, scanning the pitch black as well as he could for anything that looked out of place. Maybe they just pushed another bottle of water through, or –

There was a sudden scuffing sound off to his right, and he whirled to face it, his heart racing. He pushed himself off the cardboard and slid through the dirt on his ass until his back hit the wall. At least one side was protected. His chest ached, and he pressed a hand flat against it. 

Neal strained to listen, unsure of exactly what was happening. This was a new development, one he couldn’t quite figure out. At first, he heard only a second set of respirations cutting through the stale air, rapid but not yet frantic. 

The next sound chilled him to his very core. It was the distinct metallic click of a semi-automatic pistol slide being racked. And it was way too close.

“No,” he whispered, waiting for the bite of the gun barrel against his temple. 

“Shut up.” The growl came from right beside him, and he cowered, knowing what would come next. The kick to his ribs took his breath away. “Piece of _shit_.” The blow to his head from the butt of the pistol knocked him onto his side, made him lose what was left of his connection with consciousness, plunged him into a darkness that was miles deeper than his night vision.

\-------------

_Neal…_

Pressure on his shoulder, shaking his sore body. A warm palm cupped his cheek.

_Neal. Oh, god. Neal, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me._

Something dug into his chest, pressing against his breastbone, and he let out a moan.

_Yeah, that’s it. C’mon, Neal. It’s Peter…I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe._

Peter.

Neal struggled to open his eyes, not caring about the light that would likely assault them when he did. Peter was here. Peter had come for him.

It was still mostly dark in the room, though there was a bit of dim light coming through the open door and a brighter beam cutting through the darkness close to his head . Peter was kneeling beside him, one hand on Neal’s chest, the other on his face.

Neal turned his head slowly to the side, letting Peter’s fingers trail warm – _warm_ – paths over his skin. He squinted at the source of the light, a large metallic flashlight in the dirt next to Peter’s feet. The manmade brightness so close to his eyes would have been painful had it not been so welcome.

“Peter,” he tried to rasp, waiting for the other man’s reply to know whether or not he was successful.

“I’m here, Neal.” Peter sounded different, his voice thick with emotion. But it was still Peter; he’d found Neal, and he’d get him out. “You’re safe.”

_Escape artist extraordinaire, Peter Burke._

A hand grasped Neal’s and held on tight, a lifeline, the warmth traveling up his arm and straight to his heart. The relief he felt was nothing short of rapturous.

 _Boss?_ A disembodied voice crackled near his head, and Neal flinched away from it. Peter shushed him, his free hand resting briefly on Neal’s forehead before reaching for the radio. _We’re on sub-level two. What’s your location? Did you find Neal?_

“I’ve got him, Diana. He’s alive. All the way at the end of the hall in front of you. I need some light down here, and medics – now. He’s conscious, but he’s in –”

There was a sudden pop, then another, flashes of orange in the dark, a surprised grunt. A crushing weight fell across Neal’s chest, pinning him to the dirt. He tried to call out to Peter for help, but the wind was knocked out of him, and the blackness closed in.

It no longer mattered, though. Peter was there with him, and Neal knew he was safe.

\-------------

_…hear me, buddy?_

A commotion – and an unfamiliar voice – pulled Neal reluctantly back into some semblance of consciousness. There was bright light everywhere now, and he squinted as it burned into his retinas. He was relieved to find he could breathe again, and his mouth worked, trying to form Peter’s name.

“What’s his name?” Again, he didn’t recognize the voice, but it was strong, confident. Like Peter’s.

“Peter Burke.” _Diana_. Something was wrong, though. She’d given them Peter’s name instead of his. Neal groaned and tried to push himself up, wanting to make sure she knew he was there.

“Peter, my name’s Mike. I’m a paramedic. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Neal opened his eyes as wide as he dared, still trying to speak, but the man in the medic uniform wasn’t look at him. He was looking to Neal’s side, and Neal turned his head, trying to get a better look at what was happening.

“Good, that’s good. We’re gonna get you both out of here soon and get something to help you breathe. Just hang in there.”

_Both?_

There was a deep gurgling sound close to his head, and Neal struggled to shift onto his side.

“Neal, just stay still. You’ll be okay.” Diana put a hand on his shoulder and tried to hold him down, but he managed to turn enough to focus on the figure beside him in the dirt.

“Okay, we need to get him out. He’s starting to deteriorate. What’s the ETA on our backboard?”

As Neal watched, the head of the person next to him lolled to the side, and he found himself suddenly staring into the half-lidded eyes of Peter Burke.

Eyes that stared right through him.

Neal gasped and tried to lunge toward Peter, but Diana’s hands closed on his shoulders.

“Caffrey, stay back. Let them do their job.”

He stayed on his side but craned his neck, still facing Peter, looking for any sign of recognition in those familiar brown eyes. He found none. Peter’s head rested against his own shoulder, hair matted with something Neal didn’t want to think about, crimson streaks running down the side of his pale face.

Peter’s body shuddered and he coughed, a nauseating rattle. Bloody froth spattered Neal’s face.

Peter’s blood.

Neal tried to scream, but it came out as a harsh and guttural moan that almost wasn’t human. Again, he tried to close the distance, to get to Peter, but Diana held him back.

“No, Neal, you’ve got to take it easy. They’ll have you both out of here soon.”

“P-peter?” Neal tried to take a deep breath, raking in air that reeked of dirt and excrement, fresh blood and alcohol wipes. 

Recognition sparked in Peter’s eyes, just for a second or two, but long enough for them to fix on Neal’s own.

“Peter.” 

Peter’s eyes widened, then lost focus, and he started gasping for air, the red foam dripping from his mouth and soaking into his dirt-smudged dress shirt.

“Tension pneumo,” one of the medics said, and the commotion around Peter increased tenfold. “We need to expedite.”

Neal barely noticed when another medic knelt beside him and started to examine him. He tried to focus on Peter, but the people working on the agent blocked his view.

“No, please,” he whispered, trying to reach around the medics, his fingertips brushing against Peter’s arm. His ribs ached, his head throbbed, and he was starting to lose his grip on consciousness again, but he tried to let Peter know he was there. “Peter!”

Before Neal even realized what was happening, Peter was rolled onto a backboard and taken away from him. He tried to push himself up, wanted to go after them, didn’t want to let Peter out of his sight. Diana and the medic held him back, murmured reassurances, asked him questions he didn’t really hear.

“Peter!” He struggled against their hands, panic rising in his chest. “No! No no no no –”

“Neal.” Diana’s voice, soft and steady, broke through his mantra. “They’re taking good care of Peter. You need to calm down and let them get you out of here so you can get back to him.” Stunned by the compassion in her voice, Neal stopped fighting, and his eyes locked on hers. “It’s Peter. He found you, didn’t he? He’s not going to leave you now.” 

She took one of his hands in hers, squeezing his fingers. It took a moment for his addled brain to process what she’d said, but when it did, he let out a shaky sigh and let his body go limp. 

\-------------

The first thing Neal noticed was the warmth. For the first time in recent memory, he was blissfully warm. He kept his eyes closed at first, sinking into the simple comfort that came with not being cold. His teeth weren’t chattering, his muscles and bones no longer ached from shivering so hard, his skin wasn’t covered in goosebumps. He was no longer laying on a cold dirt floor.

It felt, in fact, like he was laying on a mattress. Not in his own bed at June’s, which he thought he still might be able to recognize in spite of the fact that he hadn’t slept in it for so long. Still, it wasn’t made of cardboard or dirt, so things could have been worse. They were, not long ago.

He took a breath, deep but tentative, and smelled crisp cotton sheets, something vaguely clinical and antiseptic, and…perfume. A blend of fruity and floral, maybe with a hint of vanilla. It was pleasant and familiar, comforting in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Hoping to find the answer, he struggled to open his eyes, lids heavy and a little stubborn. At first, he couldn’t see much of anything past the ambient light in the room, stinging his eyes and making him squint. Finally, he was able to make out a figure seated by the side of his bed, one hand on the sheets next to his shoulder, looking at something across the room.

It was Elizabeth Burke.

At first, Neal was so relieved and overjoyed that he wanted to cry. If Elizabeth was there, that meant he’d been rescued. He was safe. Peter had found him again. Four and oh.

Peter.

An image violated Neal’s happiness, shocked him out of the warmth, made his blood run cold. Covers up to his chest, mattress under his body, Elizabeth by his side – yet he was chilled to his very soul.

Peter’s brown eyes, usually so engaging and reassuring, looking at Neal but not _seeing_ him. Bloody froth dripping from his lips. Hair matted red, streaks down his face. 

Neal still felt like he wanted to cry, but now for an entirely different reason. If Elizabeth was sitting with him and not with a severely-injured Peter, then…

Something built in Neal’s chest, heavy and excruciating, and it burst from him as a low, heart-wrenching sob. Next to him, Elizabeth jumped, letting out a startled cry of her own.

“Neal!” She stood and laid a palm on his cheek, her blue eyes wide and concerned. “Oh, sweetie, no. It’s okay, you’re okay.” Her thumb stroked his face, wiping away tears he hadn’t realized were falling.

“No.” He suddenly felt like he was suffocating and thrashed at the blankets that were wrapped around him, the ones he’d thought were so warm moments earlier. One of his hands was tethered to something beside the bed; he felt a pinch and a tugging sensation as he tried to free himself. “Please.” It wasn’t more than a whisper, his voice stolen by the burning in his throat and tightness in his chest. “Please.”

“Oh, Neal.” She said, reaching for the tethered hand. “No, stay still. Don’t pull your IV out.” She squeezed his fingers, and she felt so warm. Warm and alive.

Not like Peter.

Neal’s body shook, and he tried to gasp for breath around the tears. _Peter_. As devastated as he was, he was almost a little angry with himself, in the part of his brain that was still capable of coherent thought. There was Elizabeth, being so brave and trying to console him, when she herself had to be beyond heartbroken.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. I know you’re scared. Shhhhh.”

Then his tears were for her, too, even as she wiped them away, even as someone he didn’t know appeared next to her and told him he needed to calm down.

And he wanted to calm down. He wanted to stay with Elizabeth, wanted to stop crying and be strong for her. He wanted to start coping with what happened to Peter.

“Peter.” Neal looked into Elizabeth’s eyes, trying to draw strength from her, to give strength to her, to convey his remorse. “No. Peter. I’m…sorry.”

“What? Neal, why –”

“I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes searched Neal’s face, brow furrowed, hand still squeezing his. “Oh, sweetie, it wasn’t your fault. I know that, and Peter knows that.”

“But…Peter.” He felt weak, numb, but he mustered enough strength to tighten his fingers around hers. “He’s…”

“Peter’s going to be fine.”

Neal’s heart nearly stopped. He stilled, staring at Elizabeth, not even realizing that he was holding his breath until his vision started to gray at the corners. He gasped and tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. He wanted her to say it again, needed to know for certain that he hadn’t misheard her.

“Shh, it’s okay.” Her free hand once again went to his face, a comforting weight against his cheek. “He came out of surgery a little while ago. They said it’ll take a lot of time, but he should make a full recovery.”

Neal’s head swam, and his entire body started to shake. _Full recovery_. Peter was alive. The relief overwhelmed him, bringing the fog back to his vision, and he could feel himself losing his grip on consciousness.

“Neal?”

Though he tried to focus on Elizabeth, tried to pull strength from her voice and her touch, the emotional roller coaster ride was too much for him to handle. He slipped back into the darkness, secure in the knowledge that he was safe – and Peter was alive.

\-------------

Due to Neal’s weakened physical condition, it was two more days before he was allowed to see Peter. The nurse pushed him in a wheelchair for most of the trip, but as soon as they arrived at Peter’s room, he stood and walked in under his own power. Peter and Elizabeth had enough to worry about without being reminded of his own health issues – a mild concussion, bruised ribs, lingering effects of the lung infection he’d gotten shortly after being imprisoned. He’d also been dehydrated and malnourished, but both were already improving. Hospital food, while far from ideal, was miles better than what he’d subsisted on for the past six weeks.

When Neal shuffled into the room, Peter was propped up in bed, El at his side. There was a pillow laying across his chest, and he was hooked up to an IV and various monitors. He looked pale and drawn, but when he caught sight of Neal, he broke into a grin that lit up his whole face.

“Neal!” His voice was raspy and barely above a whisper, but it was more than enough for Neal, who thought he might never get to hear it again. “Man, am I glad to see you.”

“You, too, Peter.” Neal returned the smile and started to head around the other side of his bed, to Peter’s left, but El motioned for him to come over next to her on the right.

“His chest tube’s over there,” she explained. “They took him off the ventilator yesterday, and they said if his lung stays inflated and he keeps doing so well with the breathing exercises, they may take out the chest tube tomorrow.”

Peter gave him a sheepish grin. “They’ve got me hooked up to so many damn machines.” He held up a hand to Neal, who took it and squeezed reassuringly. “You’re looking good.”

Neal’s eyes drifted over Peter, starting at the pillow on his chest and moving up past the nasal cannula to the bandage on the left side of his head, covering the spot where he’d been grazed by the second shot.

“So are you,” he finally said, voice nearly as soft as Peter’s.

“Thought you couldn’t lie to me.” Peter hugged the pillow to his chest with his free hand as he huffed out a laugh, then winced briefly before the smile returned.

Neal swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and shook his head. “I’m not,” he whispered, ducking his head. _The last time I saw you, you looked like you were dead._ Elizabeth’s hand went to his back, stroking gently up and down, loaning him some of her strength.

“Yeah,” Peter said, squeezing his fingers with a surprising amount of strength, given his condition. “I guess I look better than the last time you saw me. I don’t remember much of that part. Good thing, I guess.”

“Neal, why don’t you sit down here?” El said. “You look like you’re still worn out.” She stood and guided him to the chair, then got another chair from the other side of the room and brought it over for herself. Though brief, the distraction gave Neal enough time to get himself under control. When he saw that Peter was smiling at him once again, he was able to mirror it.

“So how long until I get to return the favor and break you out of here?” Neal asked as he took Peter’s hand once again. With just the three of them there, the older man didn’t seem to mind, and the warmth of Peter’s fingers wrapped around his own reassured him. After what they’d been through, no one would blame either of them for needing that connection. 

“They said I’ll be here another few days, and then I get to rest at home for a month or so before I can go back to work.”

Neal couldn’t help gaping at him. “Work? Peter…”

“That’s what I said,” El said, giving Peter a chiding look. “That better be the drugs talking.”

“Ah, come on. Just part-time at first, and I’ll only be desk jockeying for a long time.” His expression sobered a bit, and his eyes landed on Neal’s. “They said it’ll be a few months before I can even think about looking into a physical eval. And that’s the optimistic estimate.”

“Yeah.” Neal looked down at their hands, unsure of what to say. During one of El’s visits to his room – while Peter was sleeping – she’d explained the extent of his injuries.

The first shot had hit Peter in the left side, near his back, as he was bent over checking on Neal. It cracked a rib and punctured his lung, causing it to collapse, but thankfully ricocheted and exited without doing much more damage. The force and trauma from the impact caused him to collapse onto Neal, and the second shot grazed the left side of his head on the way down.

Though he appreciated knowing, the information had only served to make Neal’s nightmares even worse. He’d already been having a hard time sleeping, but once he learned the details, his mind seemed to want to take them apart and put them back together again – sometimes in different arrangements.

If Peter hadn’t collapsed from the first shot, the second likely would have killed him. If Diana hadn’t arrived right after Peter had been shot – and if she hadn’t killed the shooter on the spot – it would’ve taken too long to secure the scene and get medical help to Peter. If they hadn’t been lucky enough to be two blocks away from a volunteer ambulance corps, help might not have arrived in time anyway. If Peter had cleared the room more thoroughly instead of rushing to Neal’s aid after just a brief sweep with his flashlight, he likely wouldn’t have been shot to begin with.

Neal tried not to dwell on the ‘ifs’ when he was awake, only using them to convince himself that there was a good reason Peter was spared. In his nightmares, though, the scenarios ran unchecked. The previous night alone, he’d been awakened three separate times before giving up and paging through one of the books June had brought for him.

“You know,” El said, breaking the uncomfortable silence as she stood, “since you’re here to keep Peter company, I think I’m going to go get something from the cafeteria. Can I get you anything, Neal?”

Neal shook his head and tried not to feel self-conscious. “They’re keeping track of everything I eat right now,” he said, his voice still soft. “My dietitian has me on a pretty strict schedule. Thanks, though.” 

“That’s right, I remember now.” She smiled, then looked from Neal to Peter and back again. “Keep Peter out of trouble for me.”

Neal managed to give her what felt like half a smile, while Peter just rolled his eyes and grumbled.

“Honey, I’ve got a tube coming out of my chest, and I’m connected to more things than Kevin Bacon. How much trouble can I get into?”

“I rest my case.” With a wink, she left the room, leaving Neal alone with Peter. At first, neither of them spoke, the silence getting the better of them once again.

Peter’s exchange with El left Neal conflicted. He knew the two of them tended to work through hardships fairly easily, with humor and gratitude. Peter was still alive – talking, smiling, _breathing_ – that was what mattered to both of them.

It mattered to Neal, too, more than just about anything at that moment. As he looked at Peter, though, he had a hard time seeing past the IV in the back of his hand, the pulse oximeter on his fingertip, the bandage on the side of his head…

_…the bloody froth on his mouth, the red streaks down the side of his face, the lifeless brown eyes._

“Hey, Neal, you still with me?” Peter’s hoarse voice startled him, bringing him back to somewhere better than where he’d been headed. Fingers squeezed his, surprisingly strong for someone who’d been critically injured just a couple of days earlier. “You look like you could use some sleep.”

There was a time when Neal would have teased Peter about how he himself didn’t exactly look ready for the pages of _GQ_ , but he didn’t have it in him. ‘Alive’ was a pretty damn good look for Peter.

“Yeah, I…” _Every time I close my eyes, I see you dying._ “I’m a light sleeper, and it’s kind of crazy up there. The nurses are in and out of the room all night, and there’s a screamer across the hall. Sicilian, I think.”

In spite of the fact that he was medicated, there was a flash of playfulness in Peter’s eyes. “You mean having nurses in your room at night is a bad thing?”

Neal couldn’t help smiling at that, and the part of his soul that had grown cold thinking about Peter nearly dying in front of him thawed. “Have you seen Ron? A few inches taller than you, impressive cop ’stache, kind of Yeti-esque build? If not, I’ll ask if they can send him down to give you a sponge bath.”

Peter started laughing, a raspy caricature of his usual chuckle, then pressed the pillow hard against his chest with his free hand. “Ah, dammit, that hurts.” He squeezed his eyes shut and seemed to struggle for the next few breaths, giving Neal a moment of panic, before he finally managed to get control. A long groan worked its way up through his injured chest, and he opened his eyes, giving Neal an apologetic head tilt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Startled, Neal schooled his expression, not wanting to think about what Peter must have seen on his face to prompt a statement like that. He reminded himself that watching Peter catch his breath only proved that the man was still alive, and it was enough to put a small, but genuine, smile on his face.

“You didn’t…much.” He locked eyes with the older man, and whether it was the medications or seeing Peter alive and well enough to joke with him about the nurses, he decided a confession was in order. “I, um – I’m just glad you’re going to be okay.”

“Yeah. You, too.” Peter gave him a fond look, his eyes shining. “You have no idea. When I saw you in there and realized you were alive…” He pursed his lips and closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. “Hey, do you remember what you told me that night in my office? When I said I wanted you to visit El and me in D.C.?”

Neal nodded immediately and smiled, though the memory made his chest ache. It was one of the things he held onto during his captivity. He replayed it in his mind – Peter saying he deserved his freedom, the elation that came with hearing those words, the handshake that turned into a warm embrace – during the worst days. When he was sick, when they’d beaten him, when he found himself on the edge of wishing death would come and take him away…it was that memory that brought him back and helped him believe that Peter was still looking for him. That, and the memory of Peter’s very last words to him before he’d been taken.

_This isn’t over._

“I said I’d be the houseguest who never leaves.”

“Is that offer still on the table?”

Confused, Neal cocked his head at Peter. “Maybe it’s the drugs, but I’m not sure I follow.”

Peter blushed, the color standing out on his otherwise pale face. He pulled his hand away from Neal’s and used it to help him shift slightly on the bed, then winced in pain. “I’m glad one of us is on the good stuff,” he mumbled, his eyes suddenly seeming to want to look everywhere but at Neal. “I think mine are wearing off.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the redness spreading on Peter’s face. As easy as it usually was for him to read people, he was having a hard time telling if Peter was just embarrassed or was genuinely having problems with the pain. “Peter? Should I get someone?”

Peter shook his head. “I, uh…this isn’t easy for me.” His voice had dropped to a low whisper, but not from the injuries. “I’ll be recuperating for a while, and El will have to go back to work. In D.C. And, I thought that maybe –” The whisper cut off abruptly, and Peter gently cleared his throat. It dawned on Neal what Peter was asking, and knowing that the older man was getting tired and was probably soon due for his next dose of pain meds, he decided to let him off the hook.

“You want me to come over and help?”

“If you want to,” Peter answered quickly, hopeful eyes finally coming back up to meet Neal’s. “Purely voluntary, not a condition of anything. God knows, the last thing I’d want to do is make you feel…trapped.”

Neal shrugged, though the idea instantly made him feel more relieved than he ever would have expected. He’d always been the kind of person who preferred to retreat and lick his wounds in private, but the thought of spending time with Peter while both of them recovered was oddly comforting.

He’d spent every day for six weeks wishing he could see the man, wondering if he’d ever get to hear his voice again, and then watched him nearly die. Though he’d never admit it aloud, there was a small part of him that didn’t want to let Peter out of his sight, wanted to practically cling to him, wanted to be able to check on him at any given moment to make sure he was still breathing.

It may have scared him just a little on some level, but he still found himself nodding slowly. “Yeah, I – I’d like that. We’ll be off work for a while, and I think we’ll both need the company. We can keep each other from going stir crazy.”

“Exactly.” Peter relaxed, allowing a hint of a smile. 

“And you shouldn’t be there by yourself anyway.” He shrugged again and gave Peter an innocent look. “You know, someone needs to keep you away from the beer.”

“As long as ‘someone’ realizes I’ll be keeping him away from the wine.”

“Of course.” Neal’s fingers wandered over the blanket at the edge of the bed. “What about the marshals?”

“I talked to Jones this morning, and we think we can convince them to agree to it. Technically, I’m still your handler, and you’ll still be in my custody, although we’ll make sure they understand that Jones will be checking in with us on a regular basis, and we’ll be working on case files when we’re up to it. You’ll be taking me to physical therapy and follow-up appointments, helping if there’s an emergency, that sort of thing. In exchange, I’ll be making sure you meet with the therapist and keeping you out of trouble – and out of prison.” He put his hand on top of Neal’s. “They’re hardasses, but they’re not heartless. They know as well as I do that the last thing you need after spending six weeks… _there_ …is to be locked up again.”

Neal nodded but had to look away. He hadn’t even considered the fact that, because he wouldn’t be able to work until he was cleared by a psychologist, he might be sent back to prison. The thought sent a dart of panic through his heart, and his fingers curled in the blanket before he even realized it was happening.

“Hey.” Peter patted the back of his hand, an uncharacteristically meek gesture that made Neal look up at him curiously. “I won’t let that happen. They’ll have to put the tracker back on, but you already know how I feel about the subject. As far as I’m concerned, you earned your freedom.” He stifled a yawn, then groaned. “We can go over the details later. I think I’m starting to lose the battle with the sandman, and they’ll be in with the good stuff soon. Knocks me on my ass every time.”

“You’re already on your ass.” Neal managed a small smile and stood, nodding in the direction of the door. “I should get back anyway. I’m keeping my chaperone waiting.” He reached over and gave Peter’s shoulder a squeeze. “It was good to see you.”

“You, too.” Peter stared into his eyes, the lucidity breaking through the weariness and pain. “We’ll be out of here soon enough. In the meantime, get some sleep.”

The smile widened just a little. Though it wouldn’t be a panacea by any means, his visit with Peter – and the reassurance that came with it – at least meant that there was a chance sleep might come a little more easily that night.

“You, too.” He took one last long look at Peter, making sure his brain was convinced that the older man was alive and on the road to recovery, before turning and heading out the door to find the nurse.

He was just getting situated in the wheelchair when Elizabeth returned. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but he flashed her what he hoped was a convincing grin and waved off her concern. “Hospital policy.” He glanced up over his shoulder at the nurse, who smiled and nodded at Elizabeth.

“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll be up to sit with you in a little while. Try to get some rest.” 

“I will.” When she offered her hand, he took it, and she gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before turning to go into Peter’s room.

As the nurse wheeled him toward the elevator, Neal took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. For the first time in days, he was once again starting to feel something that had tried to elude him for so long during his captivity – hope.

\-------------

“Peter, seriously, I think we should stop for a few minutes.” Neal grabbed Peter’s bicep, bringing both man and dog to a somewhat abrupt halt. Though they were on the last part of their walk, Peter had grown pale and was breathing heavily. In spite of that, it was obvious that the older man didn’t share his opinion.

“Neal, I told you I’m fine. How many different ways can I say that? Besides, we’re only a few blocks away. We can rest when we get home.” He tightened his hold on Satchmo’s leash and pulled out of Neal’s grasp, leaving the younger man to jog a few steps to catch up.

“And what happens if you pass out like you did last week?”

That caused Peter to stop short and whirl on him, eyes blazing with resentment – but at least he’d stopped. Neal tried to count it as a victory while bracing himself for what might come next.

“I _didn’t_ pass out, goddammit. I didn’t.”

“You were on the ground.” 

“I got a little lightheaded, and when I turned to see where you were at, I tripped. That’s all.”

Neal shook his head in disbelief. “Really, Peter? Since when do you trip over your own feet?”

“I guess since I got _shot_ twice, remember?” Peter’s mouth snapped shut abruptly, and he winced, though not from pain. Neal could tell immediately that he wanted to take the words back.

It had been nearly a month since Peter got shot, but Neal had only recently gotten to the point where he was able to sleep through most nights without reliving that day in his nightmares. Since he’d been staying in Peter and El’s guest room, Peter was well aware of the situation.

Peter ran his fingers absently over the fading scar above his left ear. “Neal, I’m sorry.”

Neal nodded and tried to shrug it off, but Peter repeated the apology more vehemently. “Yeah, Peter…thanks.” He cocked his head and allowed a small smile to flirt with the corners of his mouth. “I guess I, of all people, should know how stifling the whole overprotective thing can be.”

Peter did a double-take, eyes wide, before finally relaxing. “Yeah, I guess you would.” He clapped Neal on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ve had a chance to catch my breath. Let’s get back.”

“At least let me take Satchmo the rest of the way.”

“That, I can do.” Peter passed him the leash, and they started walking, an easy silence falling between them.

When they finally made it back, Peter immediately dropped onto the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Neal made sure Satchmo had fresh water, then poured glasses for himself and Peter. He took them, along with a damp paper towel, into the living room.

“Thanks,” Peter murmured, wiping his face and neck with the paper towel before taking a long drink of water. After putting the glass down, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and Neal noticed that some of the color was already starting to return to his face. Between the collapsed lung and the tissue damage from being shot, Peter’s recovery was taking longer than he’d hoped, but he was almost ready to go back to work on a limited part-time basis. 

Thanks to his regular counseling appointments, as well as his time with Peter, Neal was ready to go back as well. The two of them had been working on case files together, and they’d actually gotten quite a bit done for Jones and Diana, but both of them were itching to get back.

As he watched Peter put himself back together, Neal couldn’t help feeling a great deal of respect and admiration for the man. While both of them were still in the hospital, he’d learned from Elizabeth about Peter’s decision to stay in New York – and why. Knowing Peter as well as he did, it hadn’t particularly surprised him.

What had surprised him was the news that when he’d gone missing, Peter hadn’t thought he’d run. _Not even for a minute_ , Elizabeth had told him when he’d dared to bring it up. _He believed you when you said you could go straight_. She’d told him Peter had started looking for him right away, even enlisted Mozzie’s help, and that when the first ransom demand came in, Peter had nearly broken down from the knowledge that his faith in Neal hadn’t been misplaced – and because the news was proof that Neal was still alive.

When she’d left him to go back to Peter’s bedside, it had been Neal who’d broken down, curled on his side in the hospital bed. After everything they’d been through, at the time when Neal had most needed Peter to believe in him, it had actually happened.

“You okay?” Peter nudged Neal’s knee with his own.

“Yeah.” Neal blinked a few times and focused on Peter, who was watching him curiously. In light of what he’d just been thinking, he decided to be honest. “Just thinking about your decision to stay here, and about Elizabeth telling me that you didn’t think I ran.”

A warm smile spread across Peter’s face. “I didn’t. It’s probably one of the few times Mozzie and I have agreed about something involving a conspiracy.”

Neal snorted and shook his head. He was silent for a moment, and when he continued, his voice was softer. “I told him I was giving up the life.” When Peter raised his eyebrows, Neal nodded. “After that night in your office. I told him I wanted to find out who I was.” He glanced down at his hands. “Right before I was taken, I also told him I wanted my freedom any way I could get it.”

“God, Neal. I mean, you deserved it, but…” Peter’s voice was as low as Neal’s, but before he could continue, Neal cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“I didn’t want it so that I could get back into the life. I wanted it so that I could just get a taste of that freedom. You know, go anywhere in the city without needing an FBI escort, maybe look into taking a few classes or something. I thought it would matter, that it would make me feel free…but now I know better.”

“How so?” Peter’s eyes searched Neal’s face for answers his words might not give.

“Now I realize that having a job, my place at June’s, and a two-mile radius – that _is_ freedom, Peter. It’s more freedom than I had when I was in prison. It’s more than I had during those six weeks before you found me. I have food and water when I need it, I can turn on a lamp when it gets too dark or grab another blanket if I’m too cold. I have people like you and Elizabeth –” His voice broke, and he paused for a moment to gather himself, clearing his throat and giving Peter an apologetic shrug. “If I need to hear your voice, I can call or visit. If I want to have a glass of wine with June or play chess with Moz, I can do those things.

“I mean, I’d love to be able to fly to Paris on a whim, but for now, I’m good with just being able to walk down to Baked by myself.”

And it was the truth. Peter had stuck to what he’d said in the hospital about Neal’s freedom. Though Neal was once again wearing the tracking anklet, Peter had somehow convinced the marshals that in addition to his two-mile radius around his apartment, he should also have a temporary one-mile radius around Peter’s home. Neal had put the new radius to good use in the weeks since, in spite of the fact that his first solo walk ended abruptly with him hyperventilating in the bathroom at the coffee shop after a man wearing cowboy boots approached him to ask for the time.

After that setback, Neal largely limited his walks until Peter was well enough to accompany him. Sometimes they took Satchmo – and El, if she was home; other times it was just the two of them. Some walks were full of friendly and innocuous conversation, others were largely silent. As Peter progressed physically, Neal was able to start recovering mentally, and he began venturing out on his own more often, whether to meet Mozzie or June or just to get a Brookster and an espresso.

“Paris?” Peter ran his fingers over the stubble on his chin. “Hmm. I’d love to see the Latin Quarter someday.”

Neal nearly dropped his glass of water. “You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not.” Peter gave him a strange look, like he couldn’t understand why Neal would be so surprised. “The Panthéon, Notre Dame Cathedral, the police museum. Maybe even the medieval art museum. Gothic architecture is stunning.”

Neal had a vague sense that his eyes and mouth were both open wide, but he couldn’t help himself. He understood that Peter wasn’t saying, _I’ll go to Paris with you_ , and he didn’t know if he’d want to go with the older man anyway. Still, the idea that Peter had even put _any_ consideration into a trip to Paris floored him. 

“What?” Peter still looked mildly annoyed for a moment, before the realization struck him. “Wait. Neal. No. I’m not saying I’ll take you to Paris. I can see why you’d want to go back, though.” He waited for Neal to close his mouth before adding, “Are you allowed to visit the Louvre?”

Neal tried for an affronted look, but it fell a little short when the corners of his mouth started twitching. “Define ‘allowed.’” He took a long drink of his water, then put his glass on the table and fixed Peter with a mischievous sideways glance. “So that’s a never?”

“I – well, not necessarily a never. Maybe someday. Years from now. Decades.”

“Really? Decades?” Neal huffed and sat back, resting his head on the back of the sofa and looking up at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch taut between them before he finally broke it. “Could you imagine us in Paris thirty years from now?” He sat up and grinned, transforming his voice into a crotchety version of Peter’s deep baritone. “Dammit, Neal, I told you to stay _right here_. What part of ‘stay here’ made you think you could try to con your way into the Sorbonne?”

Peter started to laugh, which only encouraged Neal to continue, adding a shakily-pointed finger for effect. “I knew I should have put a tracker on you before we got here. All these years, I thought I was getting through to you. See, this is why we can’t have nice things.” At that, Peter lost it, laughing until there were tears running down his cheeks.

Neal just sat back and tried to look proud of himself, but it warmed his heart to see Peter in such a moment of unguarded happiness. The agent hadn’t been particularly down during his recovery, taking the ‘glad to be alive’ route instead, but Neal knew he was concerned about his physical recovery. He’d already passed the psychological evaluation and was cleared to return to part-time desk duty as ASAC the following week, and the doctor and specialist were quick to reassure him that he was on the way to a full physical recovery. But he was still Peter, and there were times when Neal would be talking to him, only to notice that Peter had gone somewhere else in his mind, deep worry lines bracketing the bridge of his nose.

It had been quite a while since Neal had seen Peter laugh outright, and he soon found himself joining in.

“You forgot, ‘I should…put you in…the Conciergerie,’” Peter managed between gasps, breathless more from the levity than from his injury. The comment only made Neal laugh harder, and he slumped against Peter’s shoulder, wiping his eyes and trying to get his own breathing under control.

It felt remarkably cleansing after all he’d been through over the past year, and he could see a similar catharsis on Peter’s face.

“God, that felt good,” Peter said once he’d caught his breath, scrubbing at his face with his palms. 

“It did.” Neal grinned at him. They sat in silence as several minutes passed, just living in that heady contentment, neither of them daring to break the spell. It took a moment for Neal to realize that, in the near silence, he could clearly hear Peter breathing – _breathing_ – beside him. He closed his eyes and drifted on the ebb and flow of the older man’s respirations, and a profound peace settled over him.

The silence was eventually interrupted by a different sound – the rumbling of Peter’s stomach. Neal glanced over in time to see him frown and rub at his trim belly before smirking at Neal.

“Okay, so we’re not going to Paris anytime soon,” Neal said, giving Peter a quick thump on the knee. “Think you can put up with me long enough to help with dinner?”

“I think I can handle that.” Peter gave him a beautiful, easy smile. “French food?”

Neal went through his mental list of things he’d picked up on his latest trip to the market. “I think we have everything we need for Boeuf Bourguignon. With boiled potatoes, maybe?”

“You know I’ll never say no to meat and potatoes.” Peter stood slowly and stretched, then held out a hand to Neal and pulled him up. As they walked to the kitchen, Peter clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Neal. I needed to laugh like that. Cleared out the lungs – and my mind, too, I think.”

“Yeah.” As they stopped by the kitchen island, Neal turned to look at him. “I needed it, too.” He shook his head and grinned. “I still can’t believe you want to visit the Latin Quarter.”

“What, do you seriously think I have no culture at all?” The mock indignation almost made Neal start laughing again.

“I may have jumped to that conclusion in the past.” He considered for a moment. “You know, I’ve been there. I’d make an excellent tour guide, and you’ll need someone to translate for you at _Le Musée de la Préfecture de police_.”

“I may take you up on that someday.” Peter finally returned the smile, then stepped up to the sink to wash his hands.

“But if we go to see _La Conciergerie_ , we’re just going as tourists.”

“Just as tourists. And I won’t make you wear a tracking anklet.” Peter shot him a mischievous look. “Maybe the watch.”

“If it means actually seeing you immersed in French history and culture, I can deal with the watch.”

As they slipped into a comfortable pattern of banter, discussing other parts of Paris and their shared love of French Gothic architecture, it registered somewhere in the back of Neal's mind that a subtle peace had settled over both of them. And for the first time in a very long while, he truly felt that things were going to be okay.

***


End file.
